A Matter of Inches
by clair beaubien
Summary: Sam has a bad back and a bad attitude. Dean tries to help.
1. Chapter 1

_Near Ellicottville, NY. Mid-autumn. _

The last thing Sam saw was the sudden sunlight shining across her face and then she was gone, off the bridge, down the gorge, into the swirling river. Sam nearly went over the railing himself, trying desperately to reach her, to catch her hand, to save her life, but the agony twisting around his spine made his reach short. Their fingertips brushed then she was gone.

He could hear Dean's voice, dully, calling his name, arms grabbed him and hauled him back over the railing, onto the sidewalk and safety.

"Sam, Sammy..." Dean said over and over and Sam still tried to reach through the iron girders of the bridge, as though he might catch her yet and save her. He heard no scream, just the bitter wind and Dean's voice as he held him close on the cold pavement. "Stay with me, Sammy. Sammy, _stay here_. It's too late, you can't reach her."

Sam stilled then, one hand reaching into empty air and from far, far below he thought he heard a meager splash. That – and the pain in his back - made him feel nauseous.

"I hate you."

SSSsssSSSsssSSS

"I hate you." Sam breathed out for the dozenth time that day. The knife of pain still twisted the muscles in his back and kept him from getting any kind of rest, let alone sleep. The hot shower hadn't helped, the flat motel bed didn't help, the pillows under his knees didn't help, the four ibuprofen all at once didn't help.

The memory of that woman falling to her death didn't help.

"I hate you."

"No better?" Dean asked, coming through the door. He'd been outside, telling charming lies no doubt, to keep the Sheriff away from Sam while he was in agony.

"Sure, that's why I'm dancing."

"Ha ha. This ought to help."

A bottle landed dangerously close to Sam's head on the bed.

"Now I know why they threw you off that Little League team."

"I missed, didn't I?"

"What is it?" Sam reached blindly for the bottle and held it over his eyes to read the label.

"Codeine." Dean told him. "Liquid codeine and Tylenol. Mrs. Piper's little boy had surgery a month or so ago. He had that left over."

"Mrs. Piper?" Staying flat, afraid to move, Sam couldn't see what Dean was doing. He heard a plastic bag rustling and things being set on the table.

"She owns the motel."

"You told her I threw my back out?"

"When she heard you were my little brother, she knew you were a pain." Dean appeared in Sam's line of sight, grinning that stupid grin of his. Sam glared at him and he laughed. "Her husband's tall, taller even than you. He's got a bad back too. She saw you getting out of the car this morning and recognized the posture. She sent a heating pad too."

He bent down to plug it in behind the bedside table.

"Can you turn little? Let me slide this under your back?"

Sam gritted his teeth and held his breath and turned as much as he could. The knife twisted deeper.

"All set." Dean said and Sam laid back. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Y'get me a towel?"

"Why?" Dean asked suspiciously as though the answer might be disgusting.

"To put between me and the heating pad. I don't want to get burned."

"Really?" Dean didn't sound like he believed him.

"I've had back pain my whole life. I know the best way to use a heating pad."

"Technically Sammy, you've only had a bad back since you were a teenager. That's barely half your life."

"_Dean_."

Dean laughed again as he turned away. "Brightest star at Stanford and you don't even know how long you've had a bad back..."

If Sam had dared moving, he would've thrown the bottle at Dean. But he didn't dare moving and he didn't want to risk breaking the bottle before he'd taken the codeine.

"One towel, coming up."

"Thanks." When Sam turned toward his side again, he opened the bottle and took a healthy swallow.

"Whoa there Sammy, take it easy with that stuff." Dean said as he slid the towel in place. "I don't want to need a Shop Vac to get you into the car later on."

"If a tablespoon dose is good enough..." Sam held the bottle closer to read the label. "...for a six year old, I think a mouthful is okay for me."

"On top of the ibuprofen you've been popping like candy for two days."

Sam set himself gingerly onto his back. "I just want the pain to stop."

"Well I don't want _you_ to stop."

"_You_ can stop with the overprotective big brother routine." Sam said. Dean sat on the edge of the bed with a serious look on his face. "I said you could stop."

"They found her body. Emilia Ryan, that was her name. Mrs. Piper told me. They found her just a little while ago, a few miles down the gorge."

Sam pushed the bottle at Dean and didn't say anything. He didn't want to think about it. Maybe he could take enough codeine to make himself unconscious.

"We can't save everybody." Dean said.

"So I hear."

"Sam -." But whatever Dean was going to say, he stopped. "It's getting close to dinnertime and you hardly had anything all day. What's your pleasure?"

"Nothing. Whatever. Ginger ale maybe, in case the medicine makes me sick."

"Nothing to eat? You need something to eat."

"Whatever. It doesn't matter."

Dean let out a deep breath. "All right. I'll be right back." He stood up, grabbed his keys, and headed for the door. He stopped briefly.

"We can't save everybody."

"I know." Sam said and whispered, "I hate you."

SSSsssSSSsssSSS

Sam thought he might be in trouble when he his hands started tingling and his brain felt like day old ectoplasm. But the heating pad started to loosen the knife in his spine and after thirty six hours of too much pain and not enough rest, before Dean even got back, he fell asleep.

He woke up to a dark room and a flickering TV. He must've been asleep several hours. The agony had dulled to the ache of deeply bruised muscle and he took the risk of turning his head to look for Dean. He found him in the other bed, resting against a bundled blanket at the headboard, staring at the silent screen.

"Something wrong with the TV?" Sam asked. His mouth was dry and he felt like he had a mild hangover.

"The sound is all static."

"That's the heating pad." Sam felt for the switch and shut it off. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"How's the back?" Dean asked. He sounded tired or pissed.

"Better." Sam propelled himself to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom.

"There's sandwiches and soda pop in the fridge." Dean sounded pissed or disappointed. He reached for the remote and turned up the sound on the TV. Sam didn't like the look on his face.

"Everything OK?"

"Yeah." But he didn't look at Sam when he said it.

Sam used the bathroom then took his food and ginger ale out of the small motel fridge and sat at the small motel table in the dark room. He sat purposely where he couldn't look at Dean. He couldn't think of anything he might've done while he was asleep to annoy him, and he felt too much like roadkill to try and figure it out.

He finished a sandwich and most of the ginger ale and didn't want to think of anything beyond going back to sleep. He tossed Dean's pillows to the other bed from where they'd been under his knees and moved his own up to the head of his bed.

Before he laid down, he took another swig of codeine. Dean glanced at him but didn't say anything.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam asked.

"Just tired." But Dean still didn't look at him and Sam gave up trying. He laid down, shifting slightly to get the towel straightened out underneath him. With the pillows gone, stretched 

out flat on his back, his feet hung over the bed. He grumbled and repositioned himself to lay diagonally on the mattress; it was the only way to have all of him on the mattress at the same time. He switched on the heating pad but the sound on the TV immediately went static and he turned it off again.

"Sorry."

"No, no, it's all right. I'm going to sleep anyway." Dean flicked the TV off with the remote and the room was filled with darkness. Sam wondered again what he might've done to annoy his brother. He left the heating pad off.

"_I hate you_." He breathed out and waited for the codeine and exhaustion to take him again.

SSSsssSSSsssSSS

The first thing Sam became aware of was the triangle of morning sunlight through the crook of his elbow where he'd put his arm over his eyes. The next thing he became aware of was that the heating pad under his back was hot. He hadn't turned it on again the night before. Dean must have. Dean must've checked it, checked _Sam_, and turned it back on.

Sam switched it off and eased himself up and out of bed. The agonizing pain hadn't come back, just the same ache of abused muscles. He pressed his hand to the spot and went to use the bathroom. On the table was a bag from McDonald's that held two breakfast burritos and hash browns. A note lay on the table next to the bag, Dean's handwriting.

_OJ's in the fridge. Bookstore opens at 9. Be back later._

Paperclipped to the note was thirty dollars which was helpful since Sam wanted to hit the bookstore and he had exactly seven dollars in his wallet.

Apparently whatever Dean was pissed at or disappointed in, it wasn't Sam.

He took some more ibuprofen, ate a burrito, drank all the orange juice and headed out into the chilly daylight.

The bookstore was down the main street to his right. He could see the sandwich board out front announcing a sale. But to his left a quarter of a mile away he saw the bridge Emilia Ryan had fallen to her death from, just yesterday morning.

Sam turned left and walked to the bridge.

It was an old steel girder bridge, painted fading turquoise. There were two lanes of traffic, and two wide sidewalks, and if not for the flowers and balloons already tied to one of the uprights, Sam wouldn't have known the exact spot where Emilia had fallen. He looked over the edge. She'd had no chance once she lost the bridge. There was hardly any water and the riverbed was full of boulders and driftwood. He'd been three inches away from her and she hadn't had a chance.

He sat on the sidewalk of the bridge, with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets and his legs stretched out as much as they could be without being in the way of any traffic that might come along.

"I hate you."

Not too long of sitting there, Sam heard the Impala pull to a stop off the end of the bridge. The door opened and closed and soon Dean was sitting on the sidewalk next to him. They didn't talk, they didn't move, until finally Dean said,

"So - you hate me."

"I don't hate you." Sam answered with some surprise.

"C'mon Sammy. I heard you, at least a couple times yesterday."

"I didn't say I hate you." Sam realized his whispered remarks hadn't been as silent as he thought.

"I _heard_ you."

"I wasn't talking to you." Sam admitted.

"Who else was there?"

"Nobody. Nobody - I was talking to myself."

Dean's surprise lasted thirty seconds. He turned to stare at Sam and didn't say anything for a full thirty seconds.

"_You hate yourself_?"

"Yeah."

"Well that's just stupid."

"Stupid?" Sam asked, surprised and a little annoyed.

"Yes stupid. You don't hate yourself." It sound more like an observation than an admonition. "Okay, you know what? New rule - you don't get to hate yourself."

"'New rule'? Geez Dean, this isn't some kid game I'm playing." Sam shook his head and shifted where he sat, pressing his hand against his back. Sitting here on the side of the road wasn't doing his back any favors; he could feel the muscles wanting to bunch up again.

"Sam look - I know you feel bad about Emilia going over the bridge, but you tried. From what people have told me, well, nobody is surprised she did it. If we'd been two minutes later, we wouldn't even have known it happened. You did your best."

"If it hadn't been for my back, I would've been able to reach her."

"You don't know that."

"I know that I was three inches away from her and if my back hadn't felt like it was ripping in two, I could've reached her. I could've saved her."

"You can't hate yourself for that."

"It's not just that." Sam said, and when he didn't say anything else Dean gave him that look. The one eyebrow lifted, '_don't make me force it out of you because you know I can'_ look. Sam looked away before answering.

"I'm tired of motel beds that aren't long enough, showers that aren't high enough. I'm tired of throwing my back out just opening my laptop. Forget all the horrific stuff we've been through in our lives, there are days I'd give anything for a back that doesn't feel like I've got somebody's fist wedged next to my spine."

"So you're tired, and you're in pain. I can understand that. But it's a big step from there to hating yourself."

Off in the distance, toward the south, Sam could see the hills of Ellicottville, another twenty miles away. The ski resorts had already started making snow and though they were too far away, he could imagine people out on the slopes, enjoying themselves, not worrying about anything more important than what wax to put on their skis. That seemed so far removed from everything in his life.

"I'm the reason you're going to hell."

"So? We've been over that. It was my choice and I'm not sorry. You think you're not worth that to me?"

"I know I shouldn't be worth it." Sam said. He was surprised when Dean grabbed his shoulder and made him turn back to him.

"For the last freaking time Sammy, you're _worth_ hell to me. You're worth heaven and hell and time and eternity to me. If you say you hate yourself, you might as _well_ say you hate me."

If he didn't feel so miserable, Sam might've been amused by the sudden, vehement outpouring of feeling.

"All right. I hate you."

Dean clearly wasn't expecting that.

"What? Just like that?"

"You been hitting me over the head with it for the last five minutes. I'd say anything to make you shut up."

Before Dean could answer, a Sheriff's car pulled up near them and the tallest man Sam had ever seen got out. He had blond hair, broad shoulders, and Sam wondered if in a previous life he'd been a ski pro out of Ellicottville.

"Let me guess, Mrs. Piper's husband?" He whispered to Dean.

"Yep."

"Sam Wingate?"

Sam felt Dean put his hand on his back and give him a pat; a signal that that was the name he'd given the authorities.

"Yes."

"Feelin' up to a word?"

"Yeah."

The Sheriff turned to Dean. "The coffee's fresh at the café," he said, sounding friendly but firm. Dean didn't move though and Sam knew - one word or look or touch from him and Dean would be glued there.

"Okay." Sam glanced at Dean. "It's OK."

"Okay." Dean stood up and walked only as far as the car. The café with the fresh coffee was just a block past that, but he sat on the hood of the car, facing away but within shouting distance.

"My Rosie said you threw your back out trying to save Emilia." The Sheriff said when they were alone.

"No, it's been since the day before. It's the reason I didn't reach her in time."

The Sheriff leaned back against the fender of his car and didn't answer Sam's self-accusation.

"Looked like you and your brother were having quite the discussion as I was driving up."

"Yeah, we were discussing all the reasons being this tall is a bitch. Constant back pain being top of the list."

"I hear you. Next on my list is shirts. When I get sleeves that are long enough, the shoulders are too wide. When the shoulders fit, the sleeves are so short I look like Frankenstein's monster."

Sam nodded his agreement and smiled at the description.

"Gulliver and the Lilliputians."

"Exactly...so - wanna tell me what happened?"

"Yeah, uh, yeah." Sam scrubbed his bangs off his forehead and looked over to where he could see Dean.

"We were driving through yesterday morning, we weren't even planning to stop, we're heading to Pennsylvania. Bradford. We passed Emilia here on the bridge and it looked like she was crying and talking to herself. Really, it looked like she was arguing with somebody I couldn't see. I got out to see if I could help and Dean was going to turn the car around. I don't think she even saw me until she was over the railing. I _tried_. I couldn't reach her but I tried."

"Then you tried more than almost anyone else in her life has in the last thirty years. Something's been chasing Emilia since high school."

"Chasing?" Sam asked.

"I don't mean spooks or banshees or anything like that. I mean - she seemed to be always one step behind happiness ever since she was twelve. Nothing helped. Medication, hospitalization, therapy, nothing helped. This wasn't her first try."

"I could've reached her. I was just inches away. Inches."

"No." The Sheriff shook his head. "I've got a wingspan like a pterodactyl and it still wasn't enough to catch my son before he propelled himself off our porch and broke his arm so bad he needed surgery to set the bone. Life isn't a matter of inches. It's a matter of what's meant to be, life's a matter of what _is_."

Sam didn't answer.

"Look at your brother. I've got – what? Six inches on him? But when I wanted to talk to you yesterday, I had the feeling if I pushed it I was in for a fight, and for the first time in a long time I wasn't sure it was a fight I'd win. Life isn't a matter of inches."

"Each other is all we have left." Sam told him. He wasn't sure what Dean running interference for him had to do with not being able to save Emilia. "And yesterday I spent the whole 

day flat in bed, carpet-bombed with painkillers. I wouldn't have been much help."

"Well, I appreciate you talking with me today. And I appreciate that you tried to help Emilia, especially when you didn't even know her. Like I said, most people gave up trying a long time ago."

"Yeah."

The Sheriff walked around his car and opened the door.

"You take care of that back of yours now." He said before he got in and drove away.

Sam got to his feet and walked down to the Impala. He sat on the hood near Dean but didn't look at him.

"I hear the coffee is fresh down at the café." He said..

"I hear the bookstore's having a sale." Dean answered.

"When my back hurts, everything hurts." Sam offered, getting back to their unfinished conversation. "I get tired of it."

"I know you do. And it pisses me off that _anybody_ could hate -" Dean broke off, starting to sound angry. Then his voice dropped. " – somebody I love so much. I don't think you know how close you came to going over that bridge too Sammy. Those three inches that might've saved her would've lost me you. You're still here and you don't get to hate yourself for that."

"All right."

"You can still hate me if you want though." Dean said, flashing Sam a grin. He slid off the hood and pulled the keys out of his pocket.

"I can?"

"Hey, people way cooler than you hate me already."

"You wish."

They got in the car and Dean started it up. "Bookstore?"

"Think we could just pack up and head to Bradford?" Sam could see people looking at the car, like they knew who he was, that he'd been the last person with Emilia. "I think the sooner we're out of here, the sooner Emilia's memory can rest in peace."

"Okay."

Half an hour later they were on their way out of town again. Mrs. Piper sent them on with 

the rest of the codeine and a box of self-heating patches for Sam's back. They drove across the bridge, slowing down in front of the impromptu roadside shrine.

"Guess there's worse things than a bad back." Sam said.

"Guess there is."

"I wish I could've saved her."

"I know."

They drove on and Sam turned to watch the red balloons and silk flowers until they were out of sight.

The End.


	2. Dean's POV

"_Ellicottville, New York..." Sam read off of some brochure he'd picked up at our last pit stop. "Aspen of the East."_

"_Really? Skiing?" _

"_Yeah." He scrunched himself around in the passenger seat, trying to find a comfortable position._

"_Your back's no better?" _

_Stupid question. If it was better, he wouldn't be squirming like the seat was hot. _

"_No." _

_He sounded frustrated and I couldn't blame him. Late the day before he'd thrown his back out sneezing or something equally stupid. He'd spent the night not sleeping, only tossing and turning and saying he was okay._

"_I'm okay." He said again. He had a sweatshirt jelly rolled behind his back and about eight more ibuprofen in his system than he should have had in twelve hours._

"_All right..." Sometimes the easiest thing to do is agree with him. "So - skiing. _Snow bunnies_."_

_Sam rolled his eyes and hunched his shoulders. _

"_Why don't we stop up here in this town?" I offered. "We've been in the car three hours now, we'll take an early lunch. You can get out and walk around."_

"_Ellicottville is only another twenty miles. Let's just go there."_

"_Sure?"_

_He made a noise that sounded like an agreement and said, "You wouldn't want to keep the snow bunnies waiting."_

_Well, I couldn't disagree with that._

_There wasn't much traffic, we were the only car heading south, the only car crossing the bridge out of town. There was one lady on the bridge, walking the other way, heading into town. _

_We got past her and Sam turned around to watch her. _

"_Hey - she was crying."_

"_What?"_

"_That woman walking there - she's crying."_

"_Okay...?"_

"_Stop the car. Dean - stop."_

_I stopped the car._

"_Maybe she just had a fight with her boyfriend."_

_Sammy made a 'and maybe you're stupid' gesture and got out. _

"_I'll turn around." I conceded. Who knows, she might need a ride somewhere._

_As I drove ahead to find a place to turn, I watched Sam in the rearview. Half dead with pain and drugged to the edge of oblivion, he still had to help a complete stranger. I looked at the road a second then back in the mirror. Something was wrong - Sammy had started a jog. I stopped the car again and turned around to look - the lady was climbing over the wall of the bridge and Sam was running to save her. _

_I jammed the car in park and ran after him. _

"_Hey! Wait!" Sam was calling to the lady._

"_Sammy! Wait!" I was calling to him_

_He was running; thank God I was running faster. I got to him just as his feet left the sidewalk as he tried to grab the lady as she took a backward header off the bridge. I grabbed two handfuls of his jacket and hauled his sorry ass back to terra firma. Well, sidewalk firma anyway. _

_Was he grateful? No._

_Did he thank me? No. _

_Was my heart about to pound itself out of my chest?_

_Oh yeah. _

_Sam kept trying to reach the lady and I kept trying to keep him with me. People started to show up, sure now. They were looking over the bridge, sounding shocked, making phone calls. I only cared about Sammy - he stopped trying to get out of my arms and got so quiet I thought maybe the pain in his back had made him pass out. _

_When I looked at his face though, his eyes were open, a little too wide. His breath was too fast, too sharp. Moving as hard as he had trying to get to that lady, his back had to be agony. _

"_What happened?" Somebody asked._

"_He tried to save her." Somebody else answered. _

_Sam whispered something but I couldn't make it out. _

"_Is he okay?" The second somebody asked, a man, kneeling down next to us._

"_I have to get him up, over to our car."_

"_I called the Sheriff. Maybe we should wait, get an ambulance."_

_I wasn't going to let Sammy hang out there in public in agony. _

"_No, no, he'll be okay. I just have to get him to the car."_

SPN SPN SPN

Sam hates me. Well, that's nothing new is it? We said it to each other a lot when we were growing up. I expect we said it to each other a lot when he was at Stanford and I was with Dad and we were both incommunicado. He pretty much said it to me when that dead possessed whacked out doctor fried his brain. Maybe some of those times he even meant it. Maybe some of those times I deserved it.

But I don't know what I might've done this time to make him say it.

Sure, the pain in his back is making him cranky. It's making _me_ cranky. On top of everything else in his life that sucks, Sam doesn't need a bad back. I don't like seeing him hurt like that. I don't like seeing him hurt at all.

So I sit on my bed in the dark motel room. Sammy's asleep on his bed. We've shared enough rooms under enough circumstances in our lives that I can tell from his breathing that the narcotic effect of the codeine has worn off and he's just asleep. Finally.

There's no motel room in the world, in the continental United States anyway, that is ever completely dark, even at 2:37 A.M. Parking lot lights, security lights, street lights, together or singly they always manage to shine in, around, and sometimes through the curtains. So as I sit there, at 2:37 A.M., I can see Sammy without having to turn on the light and risk waking him up. He's sleeping and with any luck, he'll sleep another twelve hours.

He's corner to corner on the bed. The difference three inches can make and the things I take for granted. He's corner to corner, but at least he's asleep. I check but I don't see the light on the heating pad switch. Don't tell me the idiot didn't turn it back on, just because of the TV. Idiot. So I switch it on. Then I sit on my bed and stare at the little orange dot that means it's working.

I wonder how often he threw out his back at Stanford. I wonder if his bed was long enough. I wonder how often he forgot to eat. I wonder if he ever looked up spooky things on the internet and wondered if Dad and I were there. I wonder if he worried about us the way I worried about him.

Sam doesn't move, there's nothing to disturb him. All's quiet here on the northern front. We're in a small town that apparently has zero traffic after midnight. The Sheriff is the biggest thing in this town. You can tell me how far away I'd be standing from Sammy and I know exactly where to look so I'd be looking in his eyes. The Sheriff walked up to me this afternoon and my eyes nearly rolled back in my head he was so tall.

"_How's your brother doing?" _

"_Beating himself up."_

_By this time we had a motel room and Sam had already tried to drown his backache in a hot shower. Now he was lying down and not getting any rest. I was outside our motel room for the express reason of keeping people away from him. _

"_Yeah. Witnesses say he tried to stop her, tried to keep her from jumping off."_

"_We were driving past, he saw her crying and got out to see if he could help."_

"_A total stranger?"_

"_What - you don't have that small town 'help everybody' attitude around here?" _

"_We do. We're just not used to it from tourists." He smiled when he said it, and it wasn't a 'make my day' kind of smile. And when he said, "I'd like a word with your brother," it was actually a request._

"_He's not up to it." I tried to keep my voice as light as his. "His first suicide."_

"_Mine too." The Sheriff agreed. _

"_You weren't close enough to touch her just as she went over." Nice Sheriff or not, no way was he getting near Sam until I knew Sam was ready. He nodded and shrugged and looked embarrassed. _

"_I knew her. I went to high school with her. Our Moms went to high school together."_

"_I'm sorry." And I meant it._

"_Small town." He reminded me. "When do you think your brother might be up to a word?"_

"_He hasn't been feeling well, on top of everything else. He hasn't gotten a lot of sleep the past couple of nights. I'd like him to get seven or eight hours now before he does anything else."_

_I really expected the Sheriff to look at his watch and calculate to the minute when I could expect him back on our doorstep. But he didn't._

"_Okay then. You're planning on staying the night? You let me know when he's ready. I'm not hard to find." He started to walk away._

"_Don't you even want to know our names?" I asked before I thought about whether or not I should._

"_Dean and Sam Wingate." He told me, then smiled again. "My wife and I own this motel."_

I can't help thinking, sitting in the darkness in that motel, looking at my _little_ brother having to scrunch up and make do just to sleep, that somebody as tall as Sheriff Piper ought to make some effort to put extra long beds in his motel. I'll have to remember to leave that on the 'comment card' before we blow this place.

When Sammy first got so tall, when I first realized that he was having trouble fitting into bed at night, I started asking at motels if they had extra long beds. Sometimes they did, usually the higher end motels and we don't stay in those very often. But Sam asked me to stop doing that, stop asking. He said asking for something out of the ordinary was like leaving a signature for anyone looking for us. I think he just doesn't like needing something different, he doesn't like being different. All his life he got the whispers and remarks, _'his mother died', 'he's so smart', 'he's a little sensitive' 'he's so tall'._ And what has Sammy been striving for all his life? To be normal.

So, anyway - my little brother hates me. Maybe because beds fit me and nobody has ever asked me _'how's the weather up there?'_ Maybe because sneezing doesn't throw my back out and I can actually tuck my shirts into my jeans and they stay there. Anyway, not much I can do about it now, at three o'clock in the morning, with him sound asleep and me completely in the dark - no pun intended - why he hates me just now. He's hated me before, he'll hate me again. It hasn't broken my heart yet.

With nothing much else to do, I lie down.

Then I sit up once to make sure the heating pad light is still on.

Then I lie back down and go to sleep. Sam is still asleep when I wake up again and it's daylight. He hasn't moved and the orange light still glows on the heating pad, so I walk out into the glow of early morning to stretch my legs and get some fresh air. I can see the motel office from where I'm standing. The lights are still on but I don't see Mrs. Piper behind the desk. She was great yesterday.

_I was at the trunk of the Impala, trying to scrounge up the heating pad Sam said we had to throw out in Duluth. I vaguely remembered that but I was still hoping to find it so I didn't have to drive back however many miles to the nearest Walmart and buy a new one. I didn't want to leave Sam that long and I didn't want to make him get back in the car when he was so miserable. _

"_Hey, I wonder if these might help your brother." Mrs. Piper walked up to the car and offered me a plastic bag which among other things I could see held a giant sized heating pad._

"_You're a life saver." I told her._

"_I'm a woman whose husband has a bad back." She said. "When I saw your brother trying to get from the car to the motel room I could see it. He looked like he was in agony."_

"_He is." _

"_There's a hospital in Salamanca. Thirty miles."_

"_He won't go."_

"_He's stubborn."_

"_He's an idiot." I shut the trunk and took the bag. _

"_There's liquid codeine in there too. My son's from surgery he had a couple of months ago. And some unscented Ben-Gay and some stick on heating patches. And some 'buy one get one' coupons for McDonalds."_

"_You do this for all your customers?"_

"_Just the ones who risk their lives for someone they don't even know."_

_I smiled and thought, 'Lady, you've got no idea...'_

"_That's Sammy. He can't not help."_

_She smiled, but it didn't last. _

"_I thought you'd want to know, they found Emilia just a little while ago."_

"_Emilia?"_

"_That was her name, Emilia Ryan. I just heard on the scanner that they found her a mile or so down the river."_

"_I take it she's -."_

"_At peace." Mrs. Piper finished when I didn't. "Well I won't keep you. Your brother will need that heating pad. My Doug can't sleep at all without a heating pad when his back is acting up."_

"_Sammy either. I don't think he's slept since the night before last. He'll appreciate this."_

_And so would I._

Now, this morning, Sam's gotten an actual fifteen hours of sleep give or take and I want to get some breakfast for us. I take the coupon Mrs. Piper gave us and drive the half mile or so down to McDonalds. Sam's still asleep when I get back and the light is still shining on his heating pad.

He hates me and I hate that it bothers me. I know he doesn't mean it, not in the 'let me run you over with your car I never want to see you again' kind of hate. This is more the 'I'm in pain, I'm tired and I'm tired of being in the car with you every freaking day' kind of hate. Normal sibling hate.

But it bothers me.

I don't think he meant for me to hear it. He's been whispering it, when I ought to be out of earshot I guess. It bothers me that Sam is stuck with somebody he can't stand being around just now and I hate that that somebody is me.

So instead of hanging around waiting for him to wake up, I leave him a note and his breakfast and some money because I know he'll want to hit the bookstore, and I get in the car and just take a drive around town.

When I've been driving just a half hour or forty five minutes, I see Sam walking from the motel towards the bridge Emilia died from. His back isn't on fire anymore, I can tell from the way he's walking, but he isn't 100% either. I head the car in his direction.

By the time I get to there, Sam is sitting on the sidewalk of the bridge, curled over so far he's almost folded in half, looking about as dejected as I've ever seen him. I pull off on the side of the road and walk down to sit next to him. There's a lot of things I can say to him to introduce the subject, but I finally just take the direct route.

"So - you hate me."

"_I don't hate you_." Sam answers me like I said he ran down an old woman with the car.

"C'mon Sammy. I heard you, at least a couple times yesterday."

"I didn't say I hate you."

How long is he gonna keep up the pretense?

"I _heard_ you."

"I wasn't talking to you." He says. I do a fast search of my memory for any signs I might've missed. Sulfur? Flickering lights? Demon? Trickster? What?

"Who else was there?" _And why didn't you tell me?_

"Nobody. Nobody - I was talking to myself."

Whatever Sam answers me, I'm expecting to be able to answer him back. That answer stymies me. I stare at him.

"_You hate yourself?_" That couldn't be right.

"Yeah."

Nope, still couldn't be right.

"Well that's just stupid."

"_Stupid_?" Sam really hates when I disagree with him. He hates it even more when I'm right.

"Yes stupid. You don't hate yourself." Sam's a lot of things and absolutely sure of himself has always been near the top of the list. When did he decide he hates himself? "Okay, new rule - you don't get to hate yourself."

"'_New rule_'? Geez Dean, this isn't some kid game I'm playing."Sam shakes his head. His back is starting to bother him again I can tell. He's pressing his hand against his back, sitting up and shifting like he's trying to find a more comfortable position.

Ever since Sam - ever since I told him what Dad said, his mission has been to save everyone, anyone. The fact that Emilia was in our lives less than two minutes didn't change Sam feeling like a failure.

"Sam, you tried. She just tried harder. If we'd been two minutes later, we wouldn't even have known it happened. You did your best."

"If it hadn't been for my back, I would've been able to reach her."

"You don't know that."

And if he didn't have his back to blame, he'd find some other reason to blame himself.

"I know that I was three inches away from her and if my back hadn't felt like it was ripping in two, I could've reached her. I could've saved her."

"You can't hate yourself for that."

"It's not just that." Sam says and then he doesn't say anything else and I give him my patented 'don't make me force it out of you' look. Sam never can resist that look. I'm expecting an answer but not the paragraph I get.

"I'm tired of motel beds that aren't long enough, showers that aren't high enough. I'm tired of throwing my back out just opening my laptop. Forget all the bad stuff we've been through in our lives, there are days I'd give anything for a back that doesn't feel like I've got somebody's fist wedged next to my spine."

Dammit. As if regular evil isn't bad enough. Poor Sammy. Traveling the way we do, there's not a lot of chances for 'meaningful relationships'. I'll try to find a little nooky wherever I can, but Sam doesn't, and for the first time it hits me that all the physical sensations he gets to experience come down to scratchy sheets, lukewarm showers, and back spasms.

"So you're tired, and you're in pain. I can understand that. How does that make you hate yourself?"

Sam looks away from me. Towards the mountains in the distance. Skiing. Snow bunnies.

"I'm the reason you're going to hell."

_No, you're not._

"Dammit Sam - how many times are we gonna have to go over that? It's not your fault. Anyway - you think you're not worth that to me?"

"I know I shouldn't be."

_Dammit Sam_. _I'm freaking tired of this._

He still isn't looking at me but that isn't going to last one second longer. I grab his arm and - bad back or not - I make him turn back to me.

"For the last freaking time Sammy, you're _worth _hell to me. If you say you hate yourself, you might as _well _say you hate me."

I know Sam. He's going to give me that look, tell me he doesn't hate me, promise he's going to save me. He takes a deep breath. I brace for it.

"All right. I hate you."

_Excuse me?_

"You hate me? Just like that?"

"I'd say anything to make you shut up."

Sure, but I can think of better ways of doing it than saying you hate me.

I'm going to say just that when the Sheriff pulls up right near our feet. First time in a long time that Sam - _I mean that guy who hates me -_ is gonna see somebody taller than he is.

"Let me guess, Mrs. Piper's husband is the Sheriff?" Sam asks me.

"Yep."

The Sheriff acknowledges me with a nod as he gets out of the car then gets straight to business.

"Sam Wingate?"

"Yes."

"Feelin' up to a word?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Sheriff Piper turns back to me. "The coffee's fresh at the café." He so helpfully informs me. And just as soon as a pig flies over to get me some of that coffee, I'll let him talk to Sam alone.

"It's OK Dean." Sam knows I'll be waiting to hear it from him.

"Okay."

But even Sammy's say-so only goes so far with me. I get up and walk away but only as far as the car where I sit on the hood. I mean I don't want to be conspicuously eavesdropping. Much. I can hear their voices, not enough to hear the words, but I'll hear if Sam needs me.

It doesn't take long, I have the impression that the Sheriff wants Emilia laid to rest as completely as possible as soon as possible. It isn't but a few minutes that I hear Sam's long steps come walking up behind me, and he sits on the hood next to me.

"I hear the coffee's fresh at the café." He says. _I'm sorry I've been so much trouble._

"I hear there's a sale at the bookstore." I offer back. _Don't worry Sammy, I know you don't really hate me._

"When my back hurts, everything hurts." He says. "I get tired of it."

"I know you do." I know it's more than Sam's back that's hurting him. I know it's the past two years of living on a Tilt-A-Whirl from hell. It's everybody we've lost, everything we'll never have, it's bad food, short beds, unending roads. It's being three inches too tall and three inches too late to save a woman who'd apparently been trying to kill herself for thirty years. I know that.

"It's just -." I see it in my head again, Sam running after Emilia, chasing her, almost going with her over the bridge into the oblivion. "You don't know how close you came to going over that bridge too Sammy. Those three inches that might've saved her would've lost me you. You're still here and you don't get to hate yourself for that."

He's so easy. I can get him to cave to just about anything. Especially when I tell him the truth.

"All right."

"You can still hate me if you want though." I offer him as a consolation prize. I slide off the hood and walk to my side of the car and he does too.

"I can?"

"Hey, people way cooler than you hate me already."

"You wish."

"Bookstore?" I offer, another consolation prize, when we're in the car.

"Think we could just pack up and head to Bradford?" He's looking at the bridge. "I think the sooner we're out of here, the sooner Emilia can rest in peace."

"Sure."

We're packed and out of there in no time. As we cross the bridge one last time out of town I slow down at the memorial, the balloons and flowers and stuffed animals huddled around one of the girders.

"Guess there's worse things than a bad back." Sam says, and the list of those things that comes to my mind is longer than this road we're on.

"Guess there is." I agree.

"I wish I could've saved her."

"I know you do."

I kept going then and Sam turned and watched the bridge and the balloons and flowers until we followed a bend in the road and he couldn't see them anymore.

The End.


End file.
